


prime.

by Elisye



Series: outside of the golden land [5]
Category: Clockwork (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, anyway everyone have some sads for the new year's eve, bc that's me. a shitty mood ruiner. wwww, mage!Christian, well less implied and more 'vaguely written but it's still pretty obvious'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has their own interpretations - but there is only one truth to the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prime.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> _We watched the fading vapor trails_  
>  _which were so very dazzling—_  
>  _that I ran away._  
>  _[(I've always been weak.)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sG-DsWt9iGs)_

.

The room is spacious, but painted in iron grey.

There is a stool. There is a table. No windows.

The room is sliced in half by a glass wall. It's reinforced with the latest of engineered materials, just to make sure no one can actually break it.

You sit down, hands clasped tightly on the table. Oak, you notice absently. A bit of a rarity in Arcadia, where pine wood is more common and thus more affordable for furniture. 

On the other side of the room, seated on a velvet-cushioned chair, is a prisoner.

.

Their magic was the color of the oceans, of the sky, of freedom and mysticism and youthful naivety.

They were more skillful with their hands, with their words and with their breaths - from their fingertips, that sea-blue magic appeared, and as they twirled letters and shapes into the air, you would see birds and cats coming into formation. Miniature in size, nonetheless, they skipped around their empty dorm room with the grace that magic always provided.

You were into grander sort of illusions and tricks. The little things were only a half-considered thought.

But seeing this, feeling a bubbly laughter that actually came from the heart - a feeling you could empathize with, instead of reading straight out of novels - you decided to consider it properly.

.

You lean forward a bit. "How are you?"

They are confidently poised, hands laid neatly on their lap - the exact image of an elegant noble lady.

"...I am well," they say, with a voice too soft, nearly a contradiction to their appearance. It is further muffled by the glass, but you know how to listen through it regardless.

You glance off, to the side. There is nothing to look at in this room - nothing to stare at, nothing to be distracted with. Nothing can happen in this room. But nothing will begin or end in this room, either.

(If that's not the definition for non-existence, then what is?)

.

They loved birds and they loved cats.

They loved the sea.

But they also hated the sea.

They would look out into the distance, from the harbor, where weary shipmen and fishermen made their daily trades and living. They would look so far out, eyes seeming to graze the skyline, searching for something that can never be found.

They hated the sea, because everything grew too far away when surrounded by it. 

Once stranded in the middle of the sea - time would halt, and you would be alone. A gaping distance would be drawn, and without any outside witnesses, the world you lived in both existed and didn't.

(They say this as if they understood something - a deep, knowing gravity, accompanying their words like a warning, even though they were spoken so simply...)

.

You force yourself to look forward at them.

They look perfectly fine, as far as you can see. But it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine their appearance is a complete illusion. 

(They're better than you at it, for some strange reason. Aptitude? Or practice? You were certainly very lazy about using it, keeping aside its forbidden nature.)

"...I think it's time to stop." You pause, just to observe for a reaction. There isn't any - they blink, unfazed. Unless, the illusion is covering up that too. "You can't keep going like this."

"I know." And before you can anything— "I have a plan."

.

Magic beckons magic.

But it also beckons danger and persecution, death and murder. 

(They wouldn't allow you to be the scapegoat this time.)

.

Their plan is the stupidest thing ever, but a part of you appreciates its tactless simplicity:

Blowing things up with magic. 

—Savage, but efficient. 

(And they still won't let you be a scapegoat, if and when required.)

.

You're far away from Arcadia's high security prisons when you hear the distant ring of something exploding, and spot a fan of smoke through the tall windows of your mansion.

Involuntarily, you smile.

(Your mouth tastes something bitter.)

.

At the harbor, they stand in the twilight, only the furthest of streetlamps providing light.

You don't know how they managed to get here so soon, after being cooped up in a jail cell for so long, isolated from the world to the point of forgetfulness. Unless, their magic is doing more than just covering up their appearance. (You wonder for their sanity, because magic sinks its teeth in deeper in proportion to its use. And imagine, for years—)

They're staring out at the sea, and it looks so painfully nostalgic - save for the fact that they're wearing a different coat, and they have a wine bottle in their hands.

As you approach them, they turn around, calmly, still with a stone face. But their hands work quickly - the bottle is more or less shoved into your arms, and you struggle for a moment to not drop it. In that time, you ignore the clinking sounds of chains, and something heavy being dragged along the salted platforms.

You don't ignore them when they wonder aloud if rope would be better - but then dismiss it, because metal is more useful, and still very heavy.

You still don't like this plan, and they know it. They shoot you a sharp look with their eyes alone - only their eyes are as steely, and as brightly fierce as they were, before they got caught and sentenced to an inhumane life imprisonment.

Right now, they're just desperate.

.

You don't help them with the plan at all.

You refuse to, and they refused to allow you anyway.

But you do hold onto something important for them - the truth, and their last smile.

.

.

"What do you feel like doing, after you finish your courses?"

"Me? Hmm... a street-side magician?"

" _Seriously?_ "

"No, haha. I'm still thinking about it, really... It's kind of hard, to simply decide your whole life right here and now. Honestly, I'm a little jealous of you!"

"Hah. I've just, always wanted to help people, y'know?"

"To the point of senseless sacrifice."

"Isn't that what a good human being should be?"

"—If every doctor decided to die to save everyone, we would still end up dead, because all of our doctors died."

"Ouch. But hey, back to the original topic...?"

"What I feel like doing after all this? Like I said, I haven't quite figured it out... But, I think, maybe - I could be a writer?"

"You do write pretty well."

"You only read one or two of my things, Christian."

"And they were still really good! I mean, a murder mystery with a witch? Even if it's the sort of book that would get banned and burned around the world, I find it pretty interesting."

"I still think you're giving me too much credit here. But—thanks."

.

(But things didn't work out so ideally—

You switched from medicine to chemistry, and they never got a single chance to be an acclaimed writer - not after rumors and sightings about magic slipped up, and things just wouldn't settle until someone came forward and confessed.

Their face as they looked back, while being handcuffed and dragged away, is something you will never forget.)

.

.

"This is goodbye, then."

This isn't fair.

They aren't the villain of this story. You're at fault too.

"And please, don't make any senseless sacrifices, Christian," they murmur, before pushing the anchor off the platforms, and getting dragged down with it.

.

You spend an eternity, watching the water.

Nothing happens.

(They're dead. And it's your fault.)

.

You go back home, and hide the wine bottle under your bed.

You can't get yourself to look at it for weeks.

.

.

.

.

Somewhere in-between those weeks, you meet with your cousin, and Cog.

Alexander has a weary look - more tired than usual, at least. Cog just looks uncomfortable. You pat the boy on the shoulder, for some reassurance. Working in a cold place like this by yourself sure would be lonesome.

To break the ice in the room, you decide to ask what they're doing. You wished you hadn't.

"We're looking into the case of a high profile magic user - I'm afraid I can't tell you the precise details, but they escaped from their prison cell, and seem to have absconded to some place within the city."

You feel like you ate an entire pine cone. Somehow, you manage to swallow the lump.

"Yikes. Is it... is that from, well - it's not related to that explosion from a few weeks ago, is it?"

Alexander doesn't even blink, still pouring over beige files and papers. "It is."

"Oh." You awkwardly fidget with your fingers, and look downwards. The carpet sure is nice. You have a distant thought to ask why they're looking into this case at all - your cousin is the Ambassador, sure, but why get involved with what is essentially a local police case? He did say 'high-profile', but...

You continue staring at the carpet. And your shoes. Cog mumbles something about getting your hand off his shoulder.

You think about the wine bottle, and the harbor.

(For the same reason as them, you hate the sea.)

.

.

.

.

You stare at the bottle, under the chandelier lights.

It's a dull sea-green, tinged in light grey and a few flecks of yellow-orange - both from the lights, and from the letter rolled up inside it.

Almost meticulously, you unscrew the cork, and pull out the letter. You wonder when they got the time to write this.

Their handwriting is in cursive, which is only the case when they write a story. Something in you laughs at this, mirthlessly so; the truth is a story, huh?

.

.

_By the time you have read this, I will most certainly be dead._

_The only difference is whether a body will be found, or not._

_On this paper, I will depict the truth._

_This is a golden truth - from me, to you._

_By reading this, you will become its sole owner._

_I will let you decide what to do with it._

.

.

Cog comes to visit, after getting a break from work.

He spots the wine bottle, set on a brass stand - for those art pieces with ships in a bottle. Except, yours has a letter instead of a ship, tightly rolled up with gold ribbon.

"That? It's just a gift from an old friend of mine." You notice the way the kid's eyebrows scrunch up, in a thoughtful way. You decide to add some clarification. "We were buddies in the same college."

"You went to _college?_ " Education is a fancy thing, both in Mercia and Arcadia. Sure, for some years, it's compulsory, but in Arcadia - only the privileged get to study for as long as you did.

"Yeah. And, pretty recently, I guess, I met my friend from there. They gave this to me—" You gesture at the bottle, where it sparkles faintly from the sunlight. "—and told me to just hang onto it."

Cog hums a sound. "For what, though?"

You shrug. "They just wanted me to. That paper in there - it's their masterpiece."

"...How's paper a masterpiece?" You try not to laugh at that.

"They wanted to be a writer," you say, instead, hands curling around a mug of hot coffee.

"So... wait, then - they wrote a story on that paper? And stuffed it into a bottle with a ribbon?" The sheer absurdity in his voice clearly shows what Cog thinks of it. You almost feel a bit offended, on their behalf, but you're not truly because you know that in some sense, a story stuffed into a wine bottle does look kind of silly.

You try defending it anyway, before taking a sip of your coffee, "It's symbolic, Cog."

 .

The newspapers talk about the explosion for a while.

The case of the runaway magic user somehow manages to leak out, despite the tight security. 

For a while, that's all you hear about - the break out, the disappearance, the dangers.

Eventually, someone pinpoints their last appearance to the port harbor. People are questioned intensely, but the evidence goes nowhere; no one matching that person's description had boarded a ship, and they haven't even been sighted since the day they broke out.

It's like they vanished into the sea.

.

On another day, you tour the city with Cog. 

He hasn't been to the harbors, despite being in Arcadia for a while already - Alexander makes him work to the bone, apparently, with his spare time usually filled with studies of some sort.

Your hands are loosely curled in the pockets of your coat, and you look down at the murky waters below. The story of the missing magic user is starting to fade as the trail gets colder, and with enough time, it'll fade from everyone's minds entirely. (Even as people die, life goes on.)

You absently wonder where their body might be, on the seabed. Is it right where they fell from, or did the waves drag them somewhere else...?

"Christian?" You look up, seeing a frown on the other's face. "What's wrong? You've been staring down like... for pretty much a while, I guess?"

You sigh. The breeze picks up a bit, for a moment, and you can feel the salt fluttering down onto your skin.

"Remember that friend I mentioned a while back? The one who gave me a story in a bottle?"

Cog nods, somewhat uncertainly. Of course he doesn't know where this is going.

"Well. I'm just remembering them. They're not here any more." It takes a heartbeat too long, but recognition and understanding eventually dawns upon him. You see something like pitiful worry flickering in his eyes, and before you even think of it, you're ruffling the top of his head with a smile. You can't tell if you're straining yourself to look happy. "It's alright, though. Sort of alright, I guess."

You can't get yourself to say _don't worry about it_ , though. Because you keep wondering about it, at times.

(You're at fault, still at fault, always at fault - no matter what anyone says, you know this could have been avoided if you just...)

"They vanished into the sea," you mutter, not very kindly, before moving on.

(And even so, while you're forever at fault - you have to move on, because this is the truth of things.)

 


End file.
